


There's no need to be brave.

by HeartbeatsAreMySymphony



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boys Kissing, M/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, angsty teenagers, though not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:21:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9393443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartbeatsAreMySymphony/pseuds/HeartbeatsAreMySymphony
Summary: Christoffer had been alone for six months, after losing his sister and group. Carl had been alone ever since the Governor attacked the prison, and he and his family had been separated. This is the story of how two teenagers struggle to survive in the apocalyptic world, while searching for their families. |Slowburn (ish)|Carl/OMC|





	

**Author's Note:**

> Halla, I decided to repost this in a different format, as I feel the chapters are too short to be on their own. Because of this, P A R T II will take a long time to finish, so, sorry! The title comes from the song 'I Will' by Mitski, which is also the theme/recommended listening of/for this story, so you should definitely look her up!! If you enjoyed this story, please give kudos and comments! Also, I do not have a beta, so please feel free to point out any mistakes, and I apologise if Carl is a bit OOC. Without further-a-do, happy reading!
> 
> -M. L.

 

 

P A R T   **I**

 

**Chapter I**

 

 **I** t began the way all things begin. And, after it was over, there was no turning back. Somehow, people _made it_. Maybe not all the good people, and certainly some of the bad, but they _made it_. And that's all that matters.  

It's been six months; four days; ten hours; nine minutes; five, six, seven. . . seconds.

Christoffer had been alone for what felt like forever. After the Changing, he’d only had a few years with his family, before they’d, too, been taken by the Changing. Ever since, he and Briseis had been traveling alone, shifting from group to group, until they found a more permanent situation; a new group; May’s Group.

… before being separated from them during an attack from a Horde.

He’d attempted to retrace his steps back, but found he’d gone too far to ever find them again. And so, he was alone. He was alone, alone, _alone_. Living off rotting food and the occasional canned good he’d find, it felt almost fruitless, to keep living. Until, it wasn’t.

Approximately six months since he’d lost his group, he’d been scavenging in a hollow neighbourhood, looking for a place to spend the night, and something to fill his belly. It was there that he met Carl.

Chris had made his way into the last house on the street, and was halfway through looting the kitchen, when he’d heard a loud _thump!_. Initially, he’d thought it was a Changeling, and had unsheathed his knife, ready to put it down. Quietly, he’d made his way up the rickety stairs, trying his best to keep his breathing as even and quiet as possible. His fingers, which had curled around the hilt of his blade, tightened as his left hand flung the door open. Without thinking, he went to thrust the knife down into the Changeling’s skull.   

“ _Stop!_ ”

The knife was a millimetre away from the boy’s skull when Christoffer dropped it. It clattered loudly, and rang in his ears as he took in the sight before him. A boy, no older than he himself, with long, shaggy brown hair and a sheriff’s hat. A living, breathing, boy. _Someone else_.

 

* * *

  

Although the two weren’t particularly keen on one another, it was better than the daunting loneliness both had been enveloped in, and so that’s how they got to traveling together.

“I’m Carl,” the boy had introduced. That is, after heavily integrating Chris: his intentions, group, kill count.

“Christoffer.” was what he’d said, and stuck out his right hand. Carl scoffed, and instead handed him the knife he’d picked up rapidly, and had used to make sure Christoffer wasn’t lying. “Thanks,” murmured Christoffer, putting it back in its home on his hip.

Carl merely shrugged, and made his way past him and down the stairs. After catching his breath, Chris followed, still reeling from the encounter.

“What about you?” questioned Chris. He’d told Carl everything about himself, but Carl hadn’t reciprocated, and Christoffer was weary.

“What about me?”

He was the silent and brooding type, Christoffer decided glumly, as he opened a can of corn, and tucked in.

“What’s your story?”

Carl scoffed. He did that a lot, didn’t he?

“C’mon, I told you mine, now it’s your turn,” insisted Chris. The black-haired boy was starting to get frustrated. He’d told Carl everything since the Changing, and it was only fair Carl returned the courtesy. “Tell me!” he demanded, his patience thinned out completely.

“No.”

Christoffer gaped at the brunette, watching as Carl packed his back-pack, and marched out of the house, without seeming to care if Chris followed or not. Scrambling, Christoffer, too, filled his pack with as much of the canned food he could fit, then rushed out to follow him.

“Where are we going?” he asked, falling into a comfortable pace next to him. Carl didn’t answer, instead continuing to place each step forward with more purpose than Christoffer had had in the last years. “You don’t talk much, do you?” he asked, brushing his fingers through his inky, curly locks.

“Shut up.” was all Carl responded with.

Christoffer shook his head, but did as he was told. This would be a long… well, a long eternity.

* * *

 

Christoffer and Carl had been traveling together for only a few days, and already, Chris was sick of him. 

“Why do you always have to be such an _ass_!?”

The two had set up camp for the night, and Carl had taken his last watch. Exhausted, Christoffer had gratefully gone into their (only) tent, and fell asleep right when his head hit the lifeless pillow. Of course, he knew that he would only have a few hours before morning, when they would pack up, and set out again, but he wasn’t expecting to be awoken by a slap to the face. Literally. Chris had cursed at Carl, angrily rubbing his bruising cheek, and demanded to know why the brunette had deemed it fit to _slap_ him awake. Carl had merely shrugged, and nonchalantly said: “You wouldn’t wake up.”

Now, Chris was getting fed up with the sheriff’s son. He was nothing but rude, and even snobby.

“I’m not,” responded Carl. He’d packed up the tent, and decided it would be a good idea to kick Christoffer in the shins to gain his attention.

“Yeah, you are!” retaliated Christoffer. “First, you won’t tell me anything about yourself, even though I told you _everything_! Second, you think it’s a good idea to not only _slap me_ , but _kick me_ , too. Who fucking shot you in the foot!?”  

Then, Christoffer’s back was against the hard, rough bark of a tree, Carl’s face centimetres away from his. He was so close, Chris could feel the other’s hot breath on his face, and noticed for the first time that he had freckles, the same as Christoffer. He expected a punch in the gut, or maybe a violent threat, but just as quick as Carl had pinned him against the tree, he was backing off and turning his back on him.

“Hey!” yelled Chris, blood boiling and ready for the fight he had instigated. “Where are you going?”

Carl simply continued on, not caring enough to turn back to look at him.

Christoffer debated simply staying, and letting Carl go do whatever it was he needed to do. But then, he remembered the crippling loneliness of the last six months, and realised that even if Carl didn’t need him, he needed Carl. So, with a breathy sigh, Christoffer slung on his knapsack, and jogged up to meet Carl, who was already quite a ways away.

“Hey,” spoke Chris with a softer tone. “Truce?’

Carl stopped, and for the first time, _really_ looked at him.

“Truce.”      

 

**Chapter II**

 

 **I** t was two days into their truce when they found the tracks. Christoffer and Carl still didn’t speak, but when they did, it was civilised. They set up schedules for who would be on watch, and Carl promised not to be violent with Chris anymore.

At first, Chris had thought Carl knew where he was going (a thought that comforted him), but when they found the tracks, and more specifically, the map to Terminus, it became abundantly clear that he _didn’t_.

“What the fuck?” Chris said, as he analysed the sign, which read: _SANCTUARY FOR ALL, TERMINUS_. Carl came to stand next to him, eyeing the sign wearily. But then, his eyes widened, and he returned to the tracks, quickening his pace.

“Carl?” Christoffer asked, as he followed him. “You really believe that shit?”

Carl nodded. “What if it’s _real_?”

Christoffer didn’t respond, which Carl took as agreement. Because, although Chris wanted nothing more than to find Briseis, he had already let her go. Maybe it was time to find a new home.

 

* * *

 

They'd only been traveling for approximately two hours, but Christoffer’s feet were already sore, and his neck was aching from his hunching under the weight of his back pack.

“That's it!” Chris announced. He took off his pack, and gracelessly plopped himself onto the ground, the hard wood of the tracks digging into his thighs.

Carl turned to look at him, but kept walking. “What are you doing?”

Christoffer laughed. “Isn't it obvious? C’mon, everyone needs a break, even _you_.”   

“What we ‘need’ is to get to Terminus.”

“You won't leave me!” declared Chris, grinning.

At this, Carl stopped, and pivoted to face him properly. “And why’s that?”

Christoffer smirked. “Because,” he crossed his legs to signify his stubbornness for a break. “You need me.”

Carl didn't respond, but instead walked to where Christoffer was situated, and sat next to him.

“Fine. Five minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Carl’s words rang true, and after five mutes of sitting in silence, the pair was back on their feet, and walking wordlessly to the end of the yellow brick road. Hopefully, thought Chris, grinning, the Wizard of Oz won't be as anticlimactic as in the movie. He snickered at the word ‘climatic’.

“What?”

Carl’s voice brought Chris back to his senses, surprised that it was Carl who broke the silence rather than him.

He said dumbly: “Nothing.” Then inwardly kicked himself for ruining the moment.

 _What moment?_ Christoffer thought. _There was no ‘moment’._

Carl hummed in response, and then the silence was back.

When Chris decided to travel with Carl, it had been under the guise of companionship; kinship; _friendship_. But, as the days with the moody teen wore on, he realised all it meant was chess: he was just a pawn to Carl; someone useful for Carl’s personal gain, and the minute that changed, he would dump Christoffer like a mouldy sandwich.

“I miss Briseis.”

Carl side-eyed him. During all their traveling, it was like an unspoken rule was in place to not talk about anything personal… and Christoffer had just broken it.

He expected silence from Carl, or maybe a sympathetic grunt, but certainly not this.

“I miss my dad.”

Chris wanted to say something. _What was he like? How did he die?_ But those questions he saved for another day, opting instead to nod in understanding.

 

* * *

 

The boys had just set up camp, and were dining on canned corn and beans, respectively.  The day had been well spent, and they'd made a lot of progress.

“Who's Briseis?”

The question took Chris off guard. He'd forgotten he had mentioned her earlier, and assumed that similarly, Carl would have forgotten, as well.

Christoffer swallowed his spoonful of corn, and looked up at Carl, who was sat across from him. He was sitting cross-legged, and hadn't looked up from his own can of beans, even as he asked the question.

“She’s my sister,” he said. The words felt alien in his throat as they escaped his mouth. He hadn’t thought of Briseis, at least, he had tried _not to_. Everytime thoughts of her invaded his carefully guarded mind, slipping past each stationed soldier, Christoffer made quick to force her back out.

Carl hummed, and put another scoopful into his mouth.

The two sat in silence once again, shovelling spoonfuls of canned food into their mouths. Christoffer’s mind had wandered to Briseis, and for the first time since they were separated, he allowed himself to feel. He felt the grief, the loss, the pain. But, he also felt the love, the joy, the _brilliance_ that was Briseis Rivera.  

 

**Chapter III**

 

 **T** hey continued walking, and did so in their usual silence.

Despite their earlier interaction, Chris felt no change in the tension between them, and didn’t expect to. As far as he knew, Carl only kept him around for pragmatic reasons, and nothing more. It was best not to fool himself, so Christoffer kept his distance, focusing on the arrogance and coldness Carl exuded.

Everything was going well, until it wasn’t. Typical. Of course: once Chris _finally_ began regaining a sense of purpose, the Universe snatched it up, and tossed it down the metaphorical-universe-toilet. Typical.

The day was nearing her end, and the sun was setting in the distance, its light and warmth fading little by little. Carl and he had decided it would be good to walk a bit more, then move into the woods to set up camp. As they did this, they began hearing voices.

At first, Christoffer had thought he was merely going crazy (it was bound to happen, sooner or later), but then, Carl had stilled, and motioned for the other to stay quiet. There was no mistaking the jiving voices, which the boys could easily make out. There was also no mistaking that they were steadily growing louder, and thus, _closer_.

Without hesitation, Carl grabbed Christoffer’s wrist, and sped off into as silent of a run as possible. The leaves crunched under their feet, and all they could do is pray that the voices assumed they were just walkers.  

As they went, the sun continued setting, until they were only a half-an-hour from full darkness.

“Carl, stop!” whisper-yelled Chris. “We have to set up camp.”

They could no longer hear the voices, but it was clear that Carl was still on his guard.

“Please,” spoke Christoffer, “we have to set up camp, or we’ll freeze.”

Of course, that was an exaggeration (they were in Georgia, after all), but it seemed to snap some sense back into Carl, and he came to a halt.

“Sorry.” was all he said, as he began setting up the tent.

Chris nodded, and said: “I’ll take first watch.”

The wind had gotten bad, and even inside the tent, Christoffer was cold. He poked his head out of the tent, and saw that Carl was shivering as he sat on watch, and a part of him felt guilty. They’d had a long day, and both deserved rest.

“Hey,”

Carl turned to look at him.

“Come in.”

Christoffer had thought the offer would be declined, but then, he felt the rustling of the tent, and another body lying down next to him. Without thinking, he spread out the small blanket to cover them both.

“Good night.”

“Night.”

 

* * *

 

Only two hours could’ve passed before Chris was wide-awake again. His neck was sore, and all though it was warmer with Carl, the tent was significantly crowded with the two of them.

Christoffer’s heart was beginning to beat rapidly against his ribs. He and Carl had never been in such close proximity, not since the first time they’d encountered each other. But, when that happened, Chris had been holding a knife to Carl’s head, not sharing a tiny tent. They were so close, that Christoffer could feel the gentle lull of Carl’s breath, and could’ve played connect the dots with his freckles.

He’s not sure what possessed him to do it, but somehow, his palm found its way to Carl’s cheek, pressed gently against the other’s skin. It was warmer than he’d expected. Softer, too. Absent mindedly, Christoffer drew closer, and his thumb lazily rubbed against the brunette’s cheek. Then, his eyes blinked awake.

Chris froze, his heartbeat doubling its already rapid pace as brown met blue. Something inside of him was screaming for Christoffer to take his hand away, and pretend this never happened. But, another part, a smaller, weaker part, was urging him to move closer. He followed the latter.

They were nose to nose, now. Christoffer could feel Carl’s breath mingling with his own, and something told him he should be scared, but he _wasn’t_. Then, they were kissing.

It wasn’t a soft, sweet, gentle kiss; the type you were supposed to share with girls. It was rough, bitter. Breathless, their mouths collided in battle, and Christoffer’s grip on Carl’s cheek tightened as Carl’s own hands slid up his torso. When they pulled apart, Carl’s grip didn’t soften, and neither did Chris’.

“I’m not gay,” he breathed.

“Me, neither.” spoke Carl.

And then, they were falling back into each other; clumsy hands reaching for every part of the other, the way a starving man’s would for a feast, until the sun rose, and the birds chirped.  

 

**Chapter IV**

 

 **A** fter packing up the tent, and getting ready to get back to their journey, it dawned on Chris that they had strayed quite far from the tracks. However, he decided it would be wise to keep those thoughts to himself, fearing Carl’s wrath if he suggested that they were lost.

They did not speak about what happened in the tent, and it didn’t change how they interacted with the other. It was just as silent as ever, and Carl was just as cold. Something inside Christoffer stung, but he forced himself not to feel it, whatever it was.  

The day wore on, and they seemed no closer to finding the tracks than when they'd first set out that morning. Christoffer was beginning to lose all inklings of hope that they would find them, and then, the sun was setting, and they were setting up camp.

Carl hadn't spoken a word to Christoffer all day, but when the tent was finished, he said to him:

“We don't have to take watch.”

Chris hadn't been expecting those to be the first words from Carl since… _the incident_ , but couldn't come up with a response that wouldn't make him sound dumb, so he merely nodded, and handed him a can for dinner.

They ate in silence, and then, Carl wordlessly left to sleep, leaving Christoffer with a choice of sharing a tent with the angsty teen, or staying out in the cold. The latter was far more appealing, but nevertheless, Chris found himself shuffling as he lay down in the old, smelly tent.

“I thought you weren't coming.”

Christoffer turned to look Carl in the eyes, and the other’s hand was suddenly on his waist, slipping beneath the fabric of his only T-shirt, lips pressed passionately to his.

Christoffer wasted no time in responding. His hands tugged desperately at Carl’s long hair, and Carl’s ran up his sides. Christoffer’s skin prickled with goosebumps at the unfamiliar touch, and he tugged harder. They were both breathless, their mouths seemingly unable to function without each other. Then, very suddenly, Carl’s mouth moved to his exposed neck, and the brunette began biting and sucking, as Christoffer’s moans evolved into breathy gasps. He could feel himself growing hard in his jeans, but then, Carl was off him, his back facing the other boy, and his chest still visibly heaving.

After what felt like an eternity of silence to Christoffer, but was really just a few fractions of a second, Carl said: “You should sleep.”

Chris nodded dumbly, and allowed himself to recline onto the hard, barely padded ground of Betsy (the name he had christened the tent with on the second night with Carl), and took the time to catch his breath.

A part of him was freaking out; screaming at him for doing something wrong, but Christoffer tried his best to ignore it. Even if he _had_ ruined whatever it was the he and Carl had, what would it matter? They were both straight, and just a little lonely. It would have eventually passed, regardless.

Chris closed his eyes, willing his mind to rest, and he was more than 70% to dreamland, when he felt a soft tickling in his finger tips. His palm was enveloped in warmth, and his fingers intertwined with someone else's. Carl was holding his hand.

 

* * *

  

They still didn't talk about it.

They woke up, hand in hand, and in the gentle light of the rising sun, they'd shared a few lazy kisses. It was nice. Then, they'd gotten up, Christoffer getting their stuff packed and preparing breakfast, while Carl packed up Betsy, and, consulted the compass he had found a few kilometres back.

Chris knew the compass was useless: they didn't know which way the tracks _or_ Terminus were, and at this point, it seemed as though they never would.

Christoffer had had an easier time accepting this, while Carl was still determined to find the tracks, although with each passing day, he seemed less and less enthused, until finally, he’d thrown the compass to the ground and stomped on it, effectively rendering it useless to anyone in the future.

“Let's go this way.”

Christoffer and Carl had been walking in the same direction since they lost the tracks, Carl stubbornly insisting it was the _right_ way. Christoffer, at this point, knew better than to question Carl, and decided no harm would come from traveling in that one direction specifically. So, they had been traveling that one way (East, according to the compass) ever since.

“What?” inquired Chris, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Carl shrugged. “This way.” he pointed a different way than before, and Christoffer realised he was trying to be random: seem as though he'd given up on Terminus, and didn't care.

A part of Chris was telling him to keep going the way they were. That giving up was never an option. But, truthfully, he was just as exhausted of hoping.

“Okay.”

 

* * *

  

Other than their route, nothing significant changed. They still strode along silently in faux-coolness, and their hands still brushed. Occasionally, they would intertwine their pinkies, and walk like that for a couple meters, before their hands fell away, and they continued trudging on in isolated companionship.

Another two days (or was it three? Christoffer was having trouble keeping count) passed until they got a change in scenery.

The two had been walking, as was routine for them. At the time, their pinkies were linked, and they were pacing closer to one another than usual. That's when Christoffer saw it.

“Look,” he gasped, his left hand pointing straight ahead.

There was no way Carl didn't see it. Unless Chris had finally lost it, there was no way Carl wasn't seeing it, too.

Christoffer’s feet bounced with the urge to run to it, but the soft pulse of the other boy kept him from doing so, and instead, they cautiously approached.  

The ground was overflowing with flowers and tall grass, a sight neither of them thought still existed. There were thick, wooden fences surrounding the premises, and there in the middle, was a structure, which seemed to have withstood the test of time (and the apocalypse).

It was a cottage.

 

**Chapter V**

 

A lot had happened since the apocalypse. And, as the dead roamed the face of the Earth, it seemed as though she, too, was slowly dying. The flowers in gardens stopped blooming weeks before the outbreak, and the grass had turned sour, despite it being the middle of spring. The animals also knew something sinister was on its way, as they retreated as far from human civilisation as possible in the days preluding the Changing. But, the cottage stood untouched by the hands of death.

It was almost as though a small, tiny corner of the Earth had been protected by God.

Christoffer smelt the air and ran his fingers through the tall, thick, _green_ grass. Carl, similarly, was agape, though he was still on guard. He had his hand at his right hip, where Christoffer knew he kept his gun.   

“Be careful.” Carl had moved to the front door of the cabin, and was tentatively pushing at the glossy wood while gripping the knob, and rotating it clockwise.

Christoffer heeded his words, and gripped Andromeda (he had decided to name his knife a few nights back) tightly in his right fist. His brow was knit tightly in a concoction of anxiety, concentration, and fear. He was only two steps behind Carl, and a more primal part of him was bitter at not being the protector.

 _I'm just as man as he is_ , Chris thought sourly. _No,_ more.

Regardless, he stayed behind the long-haired boy, and kept a mindful watch for him.

The innards of the place looked just as pure and untouched as the outside: paintings hung perfectly straight, the sofa kept tidy with pillows and a throw. The walls were clean: an unusual sight in such a dirty world. And, so far, there were no blood trails.

Something was off. There's no way something so perfect could exist, much less for _Christoffer_.

But then, he remembered Carl, and realised that it _wasn't_ for him: the sheriff’s boy deserved peace. Christoffer just got lucky.

They were now in the kitchen. Like the rest of the cottage, it was spotless. The counters, which were made of cool marble, we're just as beautiful as when they were first put there. The table in the center of the room was neatly put together, the chairs tucked in, and placemats folded in the center.

It was the cupboards which had been the last straw.

Christoffer had made his way to the small fridge (though, too large to be considered a mini-fridge), tentatively opening the door, though still not ready for the pungent odour of rotten food, and slammed it shut just as quickly. His nose was wrinkled in disgust, and his eyes watered.

“Christoffer,” Carl’s voice was deep and grave. “You have to see this.”

Chris strode over to where Carl was standing, and looked up after whipping his eyes. They widened comically, and his jaw fell open.

“Oh my Lord.”

Carl’s lips had pulled slightly at the corners, and he turned to face Christoffer. He suddenly wrapped his arms around the shorter boy’s waist, and held him close.

“We’re gonna be okay.”

 

* * *

  

The rest of the cottage was just as perfect, and Christoffer found himself wondering if this was really real. Perhaps, after the Horde, he had fallen and hit his head, and was now living in a coma. He knew, realistically, this was highly unlikely, due to the lack of modern medicine, but this was all just too good to be true. After the disgusting fridge, Carl had called him over to the cupboards, and Christoffer couldn’t believe what he was seeing. They were filled to the brim with canned goods, and more importantly, were stocked with _medicine_. _Advil_ , _Naproxen_ , _Cold & Flu_, to name a few. And, although neither of them were ill, that didn’t mean they never would be.

Christoffer’s stomach was warm with butterflies. His mind was racing, while also foggy, and his heart beat wildly. _How did this happen?_ he inwardly wondered. _Why me?_ But, he didn’t have much time to think it through, as Carl had tugged him close, the other boy’s hand resting on his slim hips. Then, chapped lips crashed on his own, and Chris’ hands were tangled in the long, thick hair of Carl. He knew that this was just a burst of emotion– both were still taking in this too-good-to-be-true situation, and as soon as they were able to cope with it, Carl would be just as cold and distant as always. But, for the time being, Christoffer enjoyed the sudden intimacy.

Chris emitted a soft squeal as Carl hoisted him up onto the counter, and as though on auto-pilot, Christoffer wrapped his legs around the other boy’s waist, bring him closer. Both were panting at this point, kissing desperately until they couldn’t breathe, then going back in.

“I checked the bedroom,” said Carl, out of breath, in between kisses. “It’s clear.” Another kiss. “Clean.” One more. “Safe.”

And before Christoffer was able to give a response, other than nodding his head frantically, Carl had gripped his thighs, and lifted him, kissing down his neck, as he carried him to the plush bed awaiting them.

 

* * *

 

 

They slept in a bed for the first time in years. It was not how Christoffer remembered. It was _better_. The moon’s reflection of the sun’s rays was leaking softly through the window and past the curtains. Carl was still fast asleep, likely just as tired as Christoffer from their earlier… _activities_. Christoffer’s cheeks flushed at the thought. He tuned on his side, facing Carl, and placed his palm on the other’s cheek, just how he had that first night in the tent. Only this time, he wasn’t scared.

He wasn’t gay. Christoffer was very firm in his sexuality, and whatever this _thing_ with Carl was, he knew was just the same as the cottage: a beautiful dream that could only last so long. But, while he had it, he would enjoy it. His thumb gently stroked his freckles, and Chris found himself smiling fondly. This was good. God had smiled down upon them, and Chris was ready for peace, even if it would only be temporary.

 

* * *

 

Morning came and went, and the two boys stayed asleep. Christoffer had fallen back asleep very quickly after he’d awoken, and Carl hadn’t so much as opened his eyes. It was now noon, and finally, the boys were coming to their senses.

“Mornin’,” spoke Carl softly.

Christoffer smiled. “Morning.”

They lay in silence, then, Carl was pulling Christoffer on his chest, tucking the shorter boy’s head beneath his chin, and curling an arm around his back.

“We can stay here, y’know,” murmured Christoffer, quite content with the feel of Carls had gently stroking his hair.

Carl hummed in response, opting to engage Christoffer in a kiss rather than answer right away.

“We can.”       


End file.
